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It was not every day you fell in love with the man you were supposed to kill
🕑 Added 2020-09-23 23:25:18 +0000 UTC
It was not every day you fell in love with the man you were supposed to kill. My tongue meets his through the hail of water spewing from his shower head, his other hand running from the bottom of my back all the way to my shoulder blades, cupping me with his thick muscles.
The first few weeks of capture were hellish, constant interrogation and breakdown. But he never laid a hand on me. I’d been warned of his charm, of his slick personality and heavy womanising but it didn’t faze me. I spat, I screamed, I tried to fight it, to fall back on all my training, but I was exhausted, lost with what to do, I wanted to get to know him more. On the fourth week we had dinner, supervised by his guards, we exchanged stories, his seat barely feet from mine, the intoxicating glare from his smokey eyes sending me dizzy and starting the rampage of my heart as my own eyes struggled to stray from his lips and angular jawline. I was falling for him, hopelessly, there was a good man deep inside him, beyond the man forced to kill for survival, he was caring and passionate, I couldn’t tear away from the lethal combination.
I wasn’t me. I wanted danger, I wanted to break away from the rigid lifestyle, to go off script just once. What we had together was too good, not to indulge myself a little, to get greedy with him, to submit to something for once. One lonely night in the prison cell he came in, uncuffing me and leading me away to his villa. He stripped me down, my shaking body begging for relief and we climbed in the shower together, my hands gripping onto his neck for dear life. As we stood in the shower, our lips locked, my building desire emanated throughout my skin, the butterflies doing cartwheels in my stomach as my head rolled back to meet the water, letting his hands slide all across me.
